you are the one who'd make me lose it all
by but we lost ourselves
Summary: the one where she's the worst art dealer ever and he probably is gonna get disowned for moving north of central park, but hey, it means he's closer to her. part two of some sort of love letter to new york.


**a/n: this is technically a continuation of my last one shot, which has turned into a sort of love letter to a city of dreamers. you can read it by itself, i think? maybe. it probably makes just as little sense as its predecessor. anyways! much love. happy reading. reviews are always adored! -inez**

"I just really felt that the daisies offset the agony in her eyes," she said, swirling her pinot and gesturing vaguely, because surely the art could speak for itself, and if it couldn't, it didn't deserve to be sold anyway.

"What's she been through?"

It was a Degas sort of thing—realist, not quite impressionist—and oil and not spontaneous at all.

"It's open to interpretation," she muttered, annoyed by the question and the perfume and uptilted noses permeating the room.

"Surely there must be something. Nobody paints something about nothing."

"I'm Nobody, who are you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you Nobody too?"

Chagrined smirks met blank stares in a sort of showdown over polite wine that was supposed to make you FEEL something, damn it.

"Dickinson," came a testy voice. "She's quoting Emily Dickinson. And being a smartass about it."

A large hand came up to rest on her hip, firm and warning. "If you'll please excuse us."

He led her into the next room, an industrial sort with harsh shadows and lots of brick. When he spun her to face him, the light cut across his face, shying away from his dark expression and cutting jaw.

"Do you want to be borderline homeless for the rest of your life?"

"I bet she thinks that Duccio painted his Maestà with nineteen angels and twenty saints."

"I thought he did?"

"No! It was twenty angels and nineteen saints! The numbers symbolize—"

"Hey babe?"

"Don't call me babe. You barely know me."

"I knew it would make you shut up, didn't I? She probably doesn't even know who Duccio is. Most people don't," he made some grand gesture of exasperation that reminded her of an orchestra conductor, then took her glass of wine and downed what was left in one go. "People don't just know that sort of thing."

"You do." She held the empty glass like evidence at a crime scene.

"For christsakes, my grandparents live in Siena."

"TriBeCa? Your grandpa lives five blocks south of here."

"My mom's parents."

"Of course," she said, like it should have been obvious—like she should have known. She pulled out of his grasp as if just realizing he'd still had ahold of her waist—just realizing what that looked like.

"What are you doing here?"

"Saving your ass." He snagged another glass of wine, looking very much as if he was going to need it. "If somebody doesn't keep your mouth occupied, you'll offend every viable source of income in Southern Manhattan."

"I'll move my work to Queens. Then you won't have such a commute to your newest self-appointment."

"I'd be less offended if I got a thank you," he put his hand on the small of her back, and she tried not to notice how dashing he looked in a suit. "She's going to buy that painting."

"What's to thank about that?" She tried to shrug him off again, but he just guided her through another doorway, pretending to be exceptionally interested in some sculpture.

"How do you think this would look in my foyer?"

"I've never seen your foyer, and the woman who made it is a whore, so—"

"All the better. Maybe I can support the arts twice in one night." His grin was a wicked sort of dapper, and caused her knees to go a bit weak.

She grabbed a new glass of Chardonnay off of a nearby tray and thought of a time nearly two years before, when he'd mischievously offered her marriage over candy canes and talk of The Princess Bride.

"I'm a sellout."

"Excuse me?"

"Do I need to reiterate? My soul belongs to Degas, women with ten thousand dollar shoes and no understanding of interpretation, and the system."

"I'm not a part of the system," he said, serious as death. "My dad's not a phone."

"Seriously."

"Duh."

She shoved him them, unamused, but a warm feeling was bleeding through her chest. It was something like sunshine and fuzzy socks and her dad's laugh.

"If you want to accomplish anything in life, or even have food in your stomach, you're gonna have to sell out to SOME system."

"Is that why Van Gogh went insane and cut off his ear?"

"Your ears are perfect. Don't go getting any ideas."

His eyes twinkled, and she tapped her heel, which was a product of the Zara clearance section, plus some red nail polish on the soles.

His shoulders seemed broader, somehow, even though that was ridiculous because she knew it wasn't the case. She'd always been small, but he made her feel minuscule—like she was a five year old playing dress up in her mother's red evening gown.

If she'd known he was coming, she would have worn black, or maybe something that wasn't as low cut, because his eyes kept dipping.

"Shouldn't you be playing America's pastime or at least schmoozing with some MLB coach's daughter?"

"I think that you're under the misguided impression that Yale's baseball team is actually GOOD," his thumb stroked smoothly against the low dip of her dress in the back, and she didn't shiver. She refused. "Allow me to correct that now. We suck."

"Yeah, but you don't."

"Not even the Brewers look to Yale for recruits anymore. No matter the batting average. Besides, I have bigger worries."

"You're going to Harvard for law?" Her eyes danced in mirth because his problems were such one-percenter issues, and it made her chuckle because otherwise she'd cry.

It wasn't until moments like this, when he showed up in five thousand dollar suits, perfectly coiffed and tailored and with a confidence that screamed 'money,' that she realized exactly how different they were.

"Columbia."

"My god."

"My grandpa may be sending me to meet him sooner than expected."

She just stood there, not knowing what to say. This meant so many things, like a not-so-lonely studio apartment in East Harlem, a constant source of peppermint sticks from the good places, and also probably nothing at all.

"That'll show him, right?" She tried to joke, but it sounded as awkward and forced as her shoulder punch looked, and she wished that she'd just kept her mouth shut to that stupid woman who now owned the not-Degas, if only so that she'd never have had to make small talk with him.

"How's school?"

"Artists don't need degrees. That's preposterous. Do you think that DaVinci had someone teach him how to draw smiles correctly?"

"Well that explains why he did such a crappy job on the Mona Lisa."

"It's open to interpretation."

"Then there's a pair of us. Don't tell! They'd advertise, you know." He was jesting her now, outquoting her to rib her, knowing she preferred to be the most cultured in a room.

"You've never been a nobody. Your entire life, from the moment you were born, you were a somebody."

He glanced away, the way he tended to when he didn't want to look at the truth staring him right in the face. "Anyways," he reached into the inner pocket of his suit and pulled out something.

It was an envelope—sleek and crisp like envelopes were when they came from money.

"I came here tonight to give you this."

"What is it?"

"The invitation to our wedding. I took it upon myself to choose the date. And the cake."

"Stop."

"Carrot. With cream cheese icing."

"Seriously."

"I know, I know. You hate carrots. But you at my grandma's carrot cake that one time and didn't even gag, so—"

She snatched the envelope from his hands and busted the seal, and wide grin broke across his face, delighted to have ruffled her feathers so.

"Masquerade," he sang lightly, and in a surprisingly pleasant tenor, "painted pictures on parade."

She glanced up at him, unamused, "Literally."

"Masquerade!"

"People are staring. I don't know you."

"Thats too bad. I was hoping you'd be my hot date. Who is the Phantom without his Christine?"

"Get turned down by Anne Hathaway again?"

"She still thinks I'm too young for her. I can't imagine why. Youth means stamina!" It was a grand exclamation for all the room to hear, but mostly to make her cheeks pink.

"You're causing a scene. You're going to get us kicked out. You came to save me, remember?"

"Not until you acknowledge that I am EXCELLENT at hitting home runs."

She was sure that she was bright red at that point, and the adults that weren't glaring were shooting her knowing looks, and she was thinking under her breath, "my god, I'm going to be known as the next 'well the woman who made it is a whore.'"

His eyes still twinkled, but he heard her worries, made low and subconsciously, and then said more privately, with that hand still stroking her lower back, "I would be honored to have you as my date to the Gala. Anne Hathaway is lovely, but she can't quote The Princess Bride like you."

"Inconceivable."

She was trying to fight her smile—was biting the corners of her lips.

"Stop that," he said, his hand coming up, thumb pulling her lip from its abuser. His wine glass was cool against her cheek as he balanced it.

"My great uncle was six foot seven," she offered, because his shoulders were broad and strong and suddenly seemed to dwarf the entire gallery. "He used to hit his head on doorframes a lot, even in his sixties."

It only took him a moment to come around to her line of thought. "You'd think he would've learned by then."

His smile was warm, like a crackling fire in late December.

She thought she maybe could have loved him a little. Like she loved sock sliding on hardwood floors and Harry Potter and oversized sweaters and the smell of paints and the sea.

"Well, he was a kind man, but he drove a watermelon truck for a living. Ran over my favorite cat. You've learned by now, im sure?"

"To drive a produce truck or dodge cats?"

"To duck."

"I'm only six three."

"Ah," she turned around, reaching for more wine, taking a long sip that she knew wouldn't actually ground her. "I guess it's your big head that makes you seem taller."

He grinned then, a flash of teeth too white for his moderate wine and excessive coffee consumption.

"So you'll go?"

"I'll have to have this dress dry cleaned."

"Grandma has a charge account at Barney's."

"Ah, then. Tell them I want something black. With a modest neckline."

"This dress it is, then!"

A woman came up to the pair, greeting him like the honor it was, and then whispered to her something about she didn't know that she kept such special company and that her painting had sold.

"He just makes my lattes and sometimes stalks me in gallery shows."

With a look of near horror, the woman clicked off in her real red-soled heels.

"So what was that painted girl so sad about?" His breath was warm on her ear, a natural congratulations in the squeeze of his hand on her hip.

She tried not to show her excitement, her relief, her disappointment. Maybe she could pay rent this month, but sometimes she felt like this city and these people would eat her soul and spit her out before she could make something of herself.

"Someone kicked her puppy because it stepped on their blanket in Central Park," she finished off her wine, passed him the glass, and reached down, yanking off her heels now that the gig was up. "And when she got home, Netflix hadn't added the third season of the Great British Baking Show."

"A crime," he laughed wholeheartedly, thinking of one too few cold afternoons nearly a year before, of fireside couch cuddling, when she'd just gotten into the show enough to forget herself and throw her legs over his lap and not mind his arm around her.

They didn't know each other at all back then, and they still didn't now. And now that couch was sitting in a new apartment, closer to Colombia and farther from his grandfather's disappointment.

"I happen to know a dashing young man with a DVR full of the next season," he mentioned offhandedly, sitting their glasses on a passing tray.

"Can we take the Red One? I don't have cash for a cab."

"You just sold that painting for an astronomical sum, I'm sure. And nevermind that, my apartment's in Morningside now."

"You're slumming it, kid. We can still take the red."

He gave a great sigh, and for someone who worked at the crappiest coffee shop in Manhattan on school breaks, he was awfully reluctant to take public transportation.

"Fine. But only if you scope out my foyer for that statue."

He led her out of the gallery and onto the street, where he paused for her to put on her shoes again before retaking her arm.

"Not a chance. The woman who made it is a whore."

"Unless you intend to help me with that home run?"

They set off.

"How tall is the ceiling? Maybe we can make it work."


End file.
